


Heart of the Kingdom

by dearly-beloved (fangirls5ever)



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Flynn Rider!Catra, Gen, Heists, Mother Gothel!Shadow Weaver, Rapunzel!Adora, Tangled-inspired au, badly planned out robbery, fantasy au?, oh gosh light hope could be the chameleon, soft, stubborn Catra is stubborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-13 22:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirls5ever/pseuds/dearly-beloved
Summary: Catra breaks into the palace to take Grayskull’s legendary sword of She Ra, but ends up stealing something much more valuable in the process.—Catradora Tangled-ish au





	1. Locks

It’s midnight when the thief slips in through the castle walls, gliding across marble floors with steps softened by shadow. The gleaming palace about it nearly drips with gold; murals, vases, urns, sets of gleaming armor enchanted to protect the wearer in battle.

Yet none of these things make the thief even waver in its quest, its veiny eyes gleaming with an almost lurid light as it passes all of Grayskull’s brightest treasures.

It knows that at the heart of the castle lies one much, much greater.

The guards along the palace walls stare resolutely forward as it passes. The last dregs of its magic, draining with each step, weave a shield of darkness so complete that no mortal eye sees past it, hiding the thief from the soldiers’ watchful gazes even as it steals past them from the moonlit courtyard, the towering hallways, the empty throne room, and finally, finally—

—the king and queen’s chambers. Here at last the thief gives up its weak veil of shadow, breathing a sigh of relief as what magic remains stirs the dark about its feet. Liquid black drifts about the hem of the thief’s long, red cloak, a soft blue glow from crystals embedded in the chamber’s walls lighting the thief’s features.

A smooth red mask obscures all its face but a pair of bloodshot, venom-green eyes. Hunched, sickly, the figure is almost elderly in how it stoops, its bent form a contradiction to how quickly it moves, how softly it steps, as it moves further into the royals’ chambers. Its eyes glow brighter now, red cloak slipping aside to reveal gnarled, liver-spotted hands as its poisonous gaze settles upon the king and queen’s bed near the back, light from the glass balcony door highlighting their sleeping figures.

Both hold a fascinating amount of power over their people—a slip of a knife over their throats, and the country itself could be brought to its knees. But the thief’s venomous gaze flits away from the royals almost as quickly as it settled.

After all, it’s here for something far bigger than just crippling the kingdom.

It’s here to steal the very heart from it.

A bassinet beside the royals’ bed catches the thief’s eye, a gleam of golden hair curled against soft blue blankets. The thief’s steps grow quicker now, eager. A blade finds its way into one gnarled hand as it steals over to the child, eyes greedily taking in the sight before it.

A baby, small and healthy, with ruddy cheeks and long blonde hair lays in the bassinet, fast asleep. Her eyes are shut, and expression blissful, one hand curled about a plush kitten as she slumbers, unaware of the figure leaning in ever closer.

Raising the knife above the sleeping child, the thief smiles to itself. It will be an easy enough thing to dispose of the infant if it shows no sign of the gift—after all, the thief’s life is forfeit if the child has no power.

To fell a kingdom even at its own demise is more than the thief could ever deserve.

“For the honor of Grayskull,” it purrs.

Yellow sparks flicker along the infant’s locks once, twice, before soft golden light spreads from roots to tips, the divine magic weakened by its bearer’s youth.

Reaching down with its empty hand, the thief strokes the child’s hair cautiously, reverently, liver-spotted skin seeming to soften in the golden glow of the child’s power. Bones straighten, tendons loosen. The magic crackling weakly about the thief’s feet takes on a darker, glossier hue, shimmering with oil-like colors as it’s strengthened by the child’s mere touch.

Young as she is, the girl is powerful—given magic of a legend almost forgotten, blessed as the conquerors of old.

Blessed as the ones they had called She Ra.

Slipping the dagger away, the thief strokes its hand one last time over the child’s locks, summoning up the strength for a final magic spell before daybreak. Without the child, using such a spell would be impossible—but with the gift of She Ra, young as the wielder is...

... the thief is certain it can cast almost anything.

Lifting the child slowly from the bassinet, the thief lays the baby to rest in the crook of its arm, venom eyes gleaming as slowly, sleepy blue open to meet them.

The thief brushes a single finger along the curve of the child’s cheek, mouth curling into a sneer behind its red mask. “Come, little one,” it purrs, voice thick with magic. Shadows begin to flicker and writhe about its feet at the words, rising higher and higher, looming over the two like the maw of some great beast.

And for just a moment, all is still as the child’s eyes open fully to meet her captor’s.

The thief’s gaze is black as the shadows about them, an endless void that makes the baby squirm as the thief murmurs, “We’ll make them pay, you and I.”

And with a roar that shakes the very foundations of the castle, the shadow beast dives down, gaping maw snapping shut around both thief and child before rushing into the black marble below.

——

When the shadows clear, neither thief nor princess is left.


	2. Claws

Catra is stubborn. It’s a simple fact of life.

Grass is green, water is wet, and Catra cannot back out of a challenge to save her life.

So what if people call her prideful. She hasn’t failed yet, right? Is it really pride if you can actually live up to your claims, and more?

Regardless of the answer, Catra can’t really say she cares. She’s a thief. What does she need of someone’s good opinion? She wants it, she takes it, simple as that.

Granted, this mindset is exactly what got her into her current predicament...

Claws dug into the side of the palace wall, feet scrabbling for purchase, Catra stares down a sheer forty-foot drop into Grayskull’s treasure room.

And maybe, just maybe, she can admit to herself that this wasn’t her best idea. Not that she’ll ever say it out loud, of course.

“Royals,” she spits, ears twitching with each precarious handhold as she makes her way down the castle wall from the skylight above. “Royals and their dumb high architecture, stupidly competent guards, and penchant for magical curiosities. Dumb thing’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.”

Truthfully, the sword she’s out to steal can in no way be blamed for her predicament—it’s her own sense of half-cocked pride that has her clinging to the walls like an oversized spider, her own indignation at Lonnie’s passing comment that, “Catra isn’t even _that_ great a thief to begin with, so where does she get off acting so high and mighty?”

Lonnie’s going to eat those words when Catra waves Grayskull’s dumbest, shiniest, best-guarded treasure in her smug face.

 _Not even a good thief._ See if Lonnie can say that when she has the whole kingdom chasing their tails, trying to track down the dumb heirloom. It’ll be a while before she can fence it, but when she does...

... she’ll have enough money to do whatever she wants, go wherever she wants.

That magic lump of crystal is going to be her ticket straight out of Grayskull. And for that, Catra can afford to suffer a few minutes of a near life-or-death experience.

Looking down, Catra breathes a quick sigh of relief when she sees the ground is now much, much closer. “Finally,” she huffs, tugging her fingers out of the chinks in the walls before dropping the rest of the distance to the floor.

Catra lands in a crouch, giving the room a quick scan before nodding, satisfied the space is clear. “Thank the First Ones for small miracles,” she mutters, again pointedly ignoring the fact that she has no one to blame for the situation but herself. 

(And Lonnie, of course, always Lonnie. And now that she’s thinking about it, maybe even Kyle—the boy is famous for messing things up.)

The sword rests on a raised pedestal at the back of the room, sunlight from the skylight shining directly on it and casting blue diamond patterns across the ceiling and walls.

“Least this part’s easy,” Catra says, stretching out her shoulders and flicking away her claws.

Even just seeing the size of the sword is enough to make her grimace. She is _not_ looking forward to making the climb with that strapped on her back if it’s as heavy as it looks.

Catra eyes the mural behind the sword as she reaches into the pouch at her waist, pulling out thin, black gloves. A woman with wild blonde hair, a white-and-gold suit, and a rich cloak of red about her shoulders stands fearlessly above a sea of black shadows, sun rising above her shoulders. She’s beautiful in the mural, that much is easy to see. Bright eyes and clever smile, strength radiating from every inch of her.

She’s regal, serene, confident, powerful. An illustrious hero for an illustrious kingdom.

It’s a shame that her status makes her worth less than nothing to Catra. Had she not been a princess, Catra might have admired her.

Bounding up the steps to the pedestal, Catra walks slowly about the sword, eyes narrowed as she scans the heirloom for the telltale shimmer of magic wards. She’s made it this far already—it’d be frustrating, to put it mildly, for all her work to be destroyed by one little magic alarm.

A faint silver glow catches her eye on the third turn, Catra’s lips curving in a wicked grin as she raises a gloved hand. “Got you,” she murmurs, and reaching down, grabs the epicenter of the silver net, the heart of the spell, her skin warming at the mere proximity of the spell.

By the First One’s. Do the royals have the guts to put an _incineration_ ward about the weapon?

... Perhaps Catra should give them a bit more credit. They’re bolder than expected.

Gently, to avoid triggering the magic (and consequently bursting into a column of flame), Catra tugs lightly at the center of the spell, teasing it apart as one might a particularly stubborn knot. The seal is complicated, and unsurprisingly time-consuming, but as she watches, the silver net of magic begins to grow slacker with each carefully-thought-out pull. It’s tedious work, no doubt, meant to deter thieves with both the long-winded task (more time to be caught) and threat of instant death (unattractive for obvious reasons).

But with her pride on the line, and having made already-significant progress, Catra is nothing if not patient.

As far as she can tell, not a single thread of magic remains between the spell and sword. If there is, though, she’ll find out the second she lets go. The spell will be triggered the instant she loses contact with the ward, and given that it’s instant incineration, she’ll have little time to try and correct her mistake.

But if she’s properly disarmed it...

One yellow eye slides open to eye the sword, hungry gaze lingering on the smooth crystal edge of it, the gem embedded in its hilt.

Maybe the sword alone isn’t worth risking her life. There’s more magic in the world than can what be found in the Grayskull castle, after all. More magic that could be hers for the taking.

And it’s what it represents that makes her let go of the spell, teeth gritted, eyes snapping shut, mind going horribly blank in a moment of almost blinding panic—

—but her fear is met only with silence, broken only by a soft chime signaling the lowering of the ward.

Catra’s breath catches in throat, the belated realization washing over her that now, with the sword right before her, shields down and no guards in sight... she’s actually going to do this.

She’s going to steal the sword of She Ra.

And better yet?

She’s going to get away with it.

Almost weak with relief, Catra reaches out a hand towards the hilt of the blade, claws flicking out to graze the smooth crystal of it before settling into a firm grip.

Mind still reeling with adrenaline, Catra only manages a breathy, “Take that, Lonnie,” before she lifts the blade from the pedestal, shocked to find it light and easy in her grip, seeming to hum with energy at her mere touch. “Fascinating,” she breathes, and spins on her heel, holding the sword up to the skylight for closer examination. 

In hindsight, this is her second fatal mistake. The proverbial nail in the coffin.

After all, Catra had checked for traps on the sword, yes—but that had been the only thing she’d scanned over. Not for one second had she thought to check the very pedestal it laid on, brushing aside any thoughts of a weight-sensitive system, or secondary alarm.

So when a loud, deafening screech shatters the silence, Catra jumps, ears flattening back against her head and eyes narrowing to slits.

Of course this would happen—stars forbid something actually go _right_ for her, just once.

Slipping the sword into the sheath on her back, Catra strips off her gloves, claws out and ready to climb. ”By the First Ones,” she growls, sprinting to the wall and taking a running leap, nails catching in the chinks of the brick as she scrabbles for a handhold to start her ascent, not looking down even as the treasure room doors slam open and guards pour in.

After all, Catra’s come too far to be caught now.

Gritting her teeth, Catra pulls herself up faster, breaths coming quick even as she rises above the soldiers’ range, above the reach of their swords and spears.

It won’t be long until they have strong, distance-based weapons with which to catch her. She knows she needs to move faster if she wants to live.

But even as her heartbeat races, sweat slicking her palms and muscles burning with each inch closer to the skylight, Catra knows that this—this is what she lives for.

The thrill of the heist, the high that follows as she stands unscathed, hearing the gossips in the taverns and marketplaces whisper of her exploits with something close to reverence, to the respect she so desires.

Even as the guards shout and rush about below her, Catra knows that this, truly, is what she dreams of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to come back to edit this again soon, but for now, I’m going to sleep :’)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading—if you enjoyed the chapter, please consider leaving a comment or kudos, it would help me so much with motivation for the story.
> 
> Again, thank you ^^

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little short for a first chapter, but hopefully I’ll be able to write slightly longer parts after this :) This year’s been really busy for me, so I might be slow updating, but fingers crossed I’ll be able to post the next chapter soon!
> 
> Any feedback would be really appreciated—it actually ends up being like 90% of my motivation :’)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


End file.
